. 


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VOICES  OF  THE  HEART. 


FANNY  FALES. 


"  O  could  we  read  the  human  heart, 
Its  strange,  mysterious  depths  explore, 

What  tongue  could  tell,  or  pen  impart 
The  riches  of  its  hidden  lore  ?  " 


BOSTON: 
B.  B.  MUSSEY  &  CO. 

1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

FEANCES  E.  SWIFT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massa 
chusetts. 


DEDICATORY   LETTER 

ADDRESSED    TO 

T,  S,  ARTHUR. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  : 

I  DEDICATE  this  little  volume  to  your  name  :  a 
name  widely  known,  deeply  respected,  and  endeared  to 
every  lover  of  pure  morality,  who  has  garnered  your 
beautiful  and  truthful  lessons,  scattered  as  they  are,  like 
"  golden  grains  over  life's  harvest  field." 

If  amid  the  anthem  ascending  from  the  ocean  of  song, 
a  strain  from  these  Voices  of  the  Heart  should  claim  for  a 
moment  your  ear,  and  linger  pleasantly  in  memory,  it  will 
add  a  joy  to  those  already  brimming  my  cup; — but,  should 
it  fail  in  that,  it  will  be  to  you,  at  least,  an  indication  of 
the  respect,  and  grateful  remembrance  of 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  HEART  IS  LIKE  THE  DEEP,            ....  9 

THE  DAYS  OF  LONG  AGO, 11 

COME  HOME, 15 

EVEN-FALL, 17 

THE  DYING  WIFE, 19 

I  WOULD  BE  FREE, 22 

TRUST  IN  GOD, 24 

HOME  AGAIN,             20 

NO   MORE, 23 

A  THANKSGIVING  SCEN7E 30 

NIGHT,      .        .        .        • 32 

THE  BRIDE'S  SISTER'S  FAREWELL,         ....  34 

'YES,  AS  A  CHILD,'             37 

THE  APRIL  SUN  SHOWER, 39 

MORE  AIR1  MORE  LIGHT! 41 

VERMONT, 43 

MOTHERLESS, 40 

SPRING, 48 

DO  NOT  CRY,  MOTHER,  SISTER'S  HAPPY,          .        .  50 

OH  MINSTREL,  PRAISE  NO  MORE  THE  CUP,        .        .  53 

MY  FATHER, 53 

GOOD   NIGHT, 57 

DEATH  OF  MRS.  OSGOOD, ,59 

TO  MEMORY,              tit) 

I  PRAY  FOR  THEE,  MOTHER, ti2 

A  WELCOME  HOME,        , 64 

ISABEL,             IJG 

.SUMMER,                                                                                         .  C8 


VI.  CONTENTS. 

A  MOTHER'S  OFFERING TO 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  SNOW-FLAKES,    .        .        .        .71 

TOO  LATE,  73 

THE  ANGEL  BY  THE  HEARTH, 70 

PLEASANT  HOURS, 78 

A  REQUIEM, ...    82 

A  WELCOME  TO  JUNE 84 

MY  SISTER  HARRIET, 80 

THE  RESTORED,  .  87 

THEY  TELL  ME  I  AM  PROUD  AND   COLD,     ...    89 

A  LEAP-YEAR  VALENTINE, 91 

CONSECRATION  OF  A  CEMETERY,  ....    92 

A  MOTHER'S  LOVE,  94 

MARGARET, 96 

OF  THEE  I  DREAM, 97 

DORA,     98 

THE  BLIND  MINSTRELS,  100 

MY  CHILD 101 

OCTOBER, 103 

THE  SISTER'S  SONG, 105 

KUNIE, 108 

REMEMBER  THE  POOR,  110 

MINE  IN  HEAVEN, 112 

SORROW, 1)3 

CHEER  UP, 114 

CAROLINE,  11.5 

THE  MAIDEN'S   REPLY, 116 

CRY  OF  THE  FAMISHING  IRISH,          .        .        .        .        118 
THE  CAPTIVE  DEER,  .  .119 


TO   THE    READER. 


The  little  violet  may  lift  her  timid  face  to  the  sun, 
and  throw  a  perfume  upon  the  zephyrs  that  gather  in 
cense  from  the  queen  of  flowers. 

The  unfamed  shell  tossed  carelessly  by  the  waves  upon 
the  shore,  has  a  tender  melody  for  the  ear  that  bends  to 
listen. 


POEMS. 


THE  HEART  IS  LIKE  THE  DEEP. 


The  heart  is  like  the  mystic  deep, 

Reflecting  cloud  and  star  ; 
And  many  wrecks,  its  waters  keep, 

And  rare  pearls,  down  afar. 

The  heart  is  like  the  tuneful  deep, 

That  ripples  forth  in  song  ; 
And  tones  there  are  that  bid  me  weep, 

And  some  that  cry  '  Be  strong.' 

The  heart  is  like  the  mournful  deep, 
Touch'd  by  an  unseen  hand  ; 

Dimpling  'neath  strains  that  o'er  it  sweep, 
Soft,  beautiful,  and  grand. 


10  THi;    HEART    IS    LIKE    THE    DEEP. 

The  heart  is  like  the  restless  deep, 
O'er  which  wild  storms  are  driven  ; 

Where  morning  smiles,  and  shadows  sleep, 
And  calm  descends  from  heaven. 

The  heart  is  like  the  changeful  wave, 

That  sparkles  on  the  shore  ; 
Ebbing  and  flowing,  gay  and  grave, 

Its  murmurings  never  o'er. 

The  tuneful  waves,  awake,  asleep, 

Jehovah's  praises  sing  ; 
O  heart !  e'en  like  the  mystic  deep, 

Send  up  thy  offering. 


THE  DAYS  OF  LONG-AGO, 


Ah  once  again,  fair,  winding  stream, 

I  wander  by  thy  shore ; 
The  uplands  crowned  with  silver  mist, 

Look  on  thee  as  of  yore : 
And  here  and  there,  a  meadow  green, 

Spreads  out,  baptized  by  thee, 
Embroidered  with  the  snowy  flocks 

That  gambol  merrily. 

The  morning  sun  illumes  thy  face, 

And  floods  it  o'er  with  gold, — 
The  mountain  eagle  dips  his  wings, 

Then  soars  on  pinions  bold; 
The  shepherd  boy  unrobes  in  haste, 

And  plunges  in  thy  tide ; 
While  panting  cattle  pause  to  gra'/e 

Thv  mossy  banks  beside. 


12  THE    DAVS    OF    LONG-AGO. 

Yon  rock,  round  which  the  waters  curl, 

Ifow  oft  it  was  the  seat, 
From  which,  in  girlhood's  careless  days, 

I  lav'd  my  tiny  feet ; — 
A  maple  casts  its  shadow  broad, 

Just  o'er  the  pleasant  spot, 
And  pebbles  shone  around  me  there; 

It  seem'd  a  Naiad's  grot. 

A  score  of  little  shining  pins, 

Were  in  my  service  prest, 
To  angle  for  the  spotted  trout, 

Yet  ne'er  by  nibble  blest. 
The  low  brown  school  house  stands  anear, 

Where  A  B  C's  I  learned  ; 
And  from  its  mysteries  profound, 

O  how  my  spirit  yearned 

To  pass  the  long,  bright  summer  hours 

Beside  thy  rippling  stream  ; 
To  list  the  murmur  of  thy  voice, 

Like  music  in  a  dream  ; 
To  gather  dewy  lily-cups, 

And  wind  them  in  my  hair ; — 
The  very  thought  had  almost  power 

To  cool  the  sultrv  air. 


THE    DAYS    OF    I.ONG-AUO. 

That  pretty  cottage  down  the  lane, 

'Mid  ancient  trees  embowered, 
Was  once  my  father's,  ere  a  cloud 

Upon  our  fortunes  lowered  ; 
The  glow  of  health  was  on  his  cheek, 

His  step  was  firm,  I  ween  ; 
And  woven  in  my  mother's  locks 

No  silver  threads  were  seen. 

The  garden  orchard  downward  slopes, 

To  where  a  brooklet  dances, 
And  winds  within  the  dark  pine  grove, 

Where  scarce  the  sunlight  glances; 
Until  upon  thy  breast  it  sleeps, 

A  glad  child  tired  with  play ; 
And  nestling  to  its  mother's  heart, 

As  evening  folds  the  day. 

I  wander  by  the  shaded  stream, 

I  wander  by  the  brook  ; 
Once  more  I  am  a  happy  child  ; 

The  flowers,  a  welcome  look  ; 
I  tread  the  well  known  garden  path, 

And  linger  by  the  door  ; 
But  quickly  drops  the  lifted  latch — 

My  dream  of  youth  is  o'er .' 

i* 


14  THE    DAYS    OF    LONG-AGO. 

All  is  unchanged,  and  yet  how  changed  ! 

The  cot,  the  streamlet  blue. 
Are  e'en  as  when  a  little  girl, 

I  wept  to  say,  adieu ; 
Scarce  one  remembered  face  I  see, 

And  some  I  loved  are  low  ; 
Alas  !  they  ne'er  will  come  again, 

The  days  of  long-ago  ! 


COME   HOME. 


Oh !  I  am  weary  waiting  for  thy  coming, 
The  eyes  are  full  of  tears  that  watch  in  vain; 
Like  a  sick  bird,  my  heart  no  longer  humming, 
With  drooping  wing,  sits  silent  in  its  pain. 

Come  home ! 

Our  little  rose-bud  on  my  breast  is  sleeping, — 
O  could  you  see  it  day  by  day  unfold, 
You  'd  fancy  wealth  already  in  our  keeping, 
And  feel  in  her  you  'd  found  a  "  vein  of  gold." 

Come  home ! 

A  tint  of  brown  lies  on  her  golden  tresses, — 
A  heavenly  light  within  her  soft  blue  eyes, — 
Her  ruby  mouth  two  little  pearls  caresses, — 
She  lisps  "  Papa  " — but,  O  !  no  voice  replies. 

Come  home ! 


1G  COME    HOME. 

The  blue-bird  cometh  when  the  winter  passes, — 
The  bud  returneth  to  the  leafless  stem  ; 
The  brook  will  dance  along  by  emerald  grasses, — 
They  come  with  spring-time ;  oh,  come  thou  with 

them  ! 

Corne  home  ! 

I  could  be  patient  were  not  life  so  fleeting ; 
But,  oh  !  we're  passing  grave-ward  day  by  day  ; 
Let  my  fond  heart  thy  presence  feel  while  beating  : 
Oh  my  beloved  !  hasten  on  thy  way. 

Come  home ! 

Come  like  a  star  upon  the  cheerless  even, 
Come  like  the  dew  upon  a  drooping  flower; 
Come  like  forgiveness  to  the  erring  given, 
Come  like  a  blessing  sought  for  every  hour. 

Come  home ! 


EVEN- FALL. 


How  beautiful — how  beautiful 

The  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
His  farewell  glance  upon  the  clouds, 

And  kiss  upon  each  one  ; 
His  parting  gifts  of  lovely  hues, 

Inimitable  all  ; 
His  backward  glance,  and  smile  of  love, 

That  brighten  where  they  fall. 

And  then,  when  veiled  from  the  sight, 

And  shadows  slowly  creep, 
How  silently,  how  silently, 

The  gentle  cloudlets  weep  ; 
And  every  tiny  blade  of  grass, 

The  lily  and  the  rose, 
Receive  the  glist'ning  tears  that  fall, 

At  crimson  sunset's  close. 

Then  cometh  Twilight;  in  her  arms 
A  pure  and  shining  star ; 


EVEN-FALL. 

I  dream  it  is  a  smiling  babe, 

Upon  her  breast  afar. 
The  loved,  the  dear  departed  one?, 

Come  .stealing  to  mv  side  : 
They  gather,  gather,  gather  near, 

Though  sundered  far  and  wide. 

I  know  that  with  a  holy  love, 

Their  faces  on  me  beam, — 
T  clasp  them  fondly  as  of  yore, 

In  spirit,  while  I  dream. 
'Tis  beautiful !  'tis  beautiful ! 

The  farewell  of  the  day, 
When  every  little  blossom  folds 

Its  dewy  hands  to  pray. 

Methinks  each  opening,  dying  hour, 

A  flow'ret's  name  should  bear  ; 
And  Pansy*  I  would  christen  this, 

For  thought  is  nestling  there. 
I  would  that  death  might  o'er  me  steal 

As  gently  as  the  even  : 
My  mem'ry  be  like  yonder  star, 

My  home  its  azure  heaven. 


There's  Pansies  that's  for  thought." 


THE  DYING  WIFE. 


Lay  the  babe  upon  my  bosom,  let  me  feel  her 

sweet,  warm  breath, 
For  a  strange  chill  o'er  me  passes,  and  I  know 

that  it  is  death. 
I  would  gaze  upon  the  treasure,  scarcely  given 

e'er  I  go, — 
Feel  her  rosy  dimpled  fingers  wander  o'er  my 

cheek  of  snow. 

I  am  passing  through  the  waters,  but  a  blessed 
shore  appears, — 

Kneel  beside  me,  husband,  dearest,  let  me  kiss 
away  thy  tears. 

Wrestle  with  thy  grief,  as  Jacob  strove  from  mid 
night  until  day  ; 

It  may  leave  an  angel's  blessing,  when  it  vanishes 
away. 


20  THE    DYING    WIFE. 

Lay  the  babe  upon  my  bosom,  'tis  not  long  she 

can  be  there, — 
See !  how  to  my  heart  she  nestles, — 't  is  the  pearl 

I  love  to  wear  : — 
If  in  after  years,  beside  thee  sits  another  in  my 

chair, 
Though  her  voice  be  sweeter  music,  and  my  face 

than  her's  less  fair, 

If  a  cherub  call  thee  Father,  far  more  beautiful 

than  this, 
Love  thy  first-born,  oh  my  husband  !   turn  not 

from  the  motherless. 
Tell  her  sometimes  of  her  mother, — you  will  call 

her  by  my  name, — 
Shield  her  from  the  winds  of  sorrow, — if  she  errs, 

oh  gently  blame. 

Lead  her  sometimes  where  I  'm  sleeping,  I  will 

answer  if  she  calls, 
And  my  breath  will  stir  her  ringlets,  when  my 

voice  in  blessing  falls. 
Her  soft  blue  eyes  will  brighten  with  a  wonder 

whence  it  came, — 
In  her  heart  when  years  pass  o'er  her,  she  will 

find  her  mother's  name. 


THE    DYING    WIFE.  21 

It  is  said  that  every  mortal  walks  between  two 

angels  here, — 
One   records  the  ill,  but  blots  it,  if  before  the 

midnight  drear 
Man  repenteth  ;  if  uncancel'd,  then  he  seals  it  for 

the  skies, 
And  the  right-hand  angel  weepeth,  bowing  low 

with  veiled  eyes. 

1  will  be  her  right-hand  angel,  sealing  up  the  good 
for  heaven, 

Striving,  that  the  midnight  watches  find  no  mis 
deed  unforgiven. 

You  will  not  forget  me,  darling,  when  I  'm  sleep 
ing  'neath  the  sod  ? 

Love  the  babe  upon  my  bosom,  as  I  love  thee, — 
next  to  God. 


I  WOULD  BE  FREE. 


I  would  be  free ! 

E'en  as  a  bird  that  sings  on  upward  wing — 
As  the  bright  waters  gushing  from  a  spring — 
As  a  cool  breeze  that  fans  the  brow  of  Even — 
Or  white  clouds  floating  lily-like  in  heaven. 

I  would  be  free, 

To  wander  viewless  as  a  spirit  blest — 
Reclaim  the  erring — cheer  the  troubl'd  breast,- 
And  whisper  hope  to  those  in  slavery's  chain, 
'  God  is  o'er  all — ye  will  be  free  again.' 

I  would  be  free 

From  tyrant  fashions,  and  from  gilded  snares ; 
From  foolish  fancies,  and  from  vexing  cares; 
I  would  not  fawn  to  win  a  proud  man's  nod, 
And  fear  no  evil  but  the  frown  of  God. 


I    WOULD    BE    FREK. 

I  would  be  free, 

And  freedom's  blessings  shower  on  all  below; 
Banish  each  spirit-fetter  full  of  woe, 
And  cruel  laws  that  sunder  kindred  ties, 
And  make  God's  noble  image  merchandize. 

I  would  be  free ! 

Captive  no  longer  to  the  sins  that  bind, 
No  selfish  passion  should  enthral  my  mind  ; 
No  worshiped  idols  chain  my  heart  to  earth, — 
Oh,  they  would  perish  by  my  darkened  hearth. 

And  I  would  be 

Glad  as  the  lark, — pure  as  the  mountain  rill, — 
Like  summer  winds,  refreshing  joy  distil 
To  the  faint  spirit,  while  on  earth  I  stay  : 
Then,  like  a  bright  cloud,  float  to  upper  day. 


TRUST   IN  GOD. 


"  What  time  I  am  afraid,  I  will  trust  in  Thee." 


If  night  upon  the  wave 

Descends  with  tempests,  that  the  deep  awake ; 
And  angry  billows  every  timber  shake 
In  the  proud  ship;  and  breakers  bellow  near; 
Though  my  heart  shudder  with  a  sudden  fear, 

O  Father !  Thou  canst  save  ; — 

I'll  trust  in  Thee. 

If  fierce  disease  should  steal 
Along  my  veins,  which  art  could  not  control  ; 
And  almost  broken  seems  the  "golden  bowl;" 
Though  the  dim  angel  hover  very  near, 
And  my  heart  fainteth  with  a  solemn  fear, 

O  Father  !  Thou  canst  heal  ;— 

I'll  trust  in  Thee. 


TRTST    IX    GOD.  VJ.J 

If  some,  my  heart  holds  dear, 
Wander  in  distant  lands,  'mid  ruins  old, 
Or  on  the  shores  where  earth  is  vein'd  with  gold, 
Though  sad  forebodings  fill  each  waking  dream, 
Yet  through  the  clouds  a  silvery  light  doth  beam.; 

O  Father  !  Thou  canst  hear  ; — 

I'll  trust  in  Thee. 

If  on  the  spotless  fame 
Of  one  I  love,  should  fall  the  blight  of  sin ; 
And  the  fair  temple,  angels  sat  within, 
Become  a  darkened  and  polluted  spot ; 
Though  by  men  cast  off, — loathed,  and  forgot, 

Thou,  Father,  canst  reclaim  ; — 

I'll  trust  in  Thee, 


HOME    AGAIN. 


Breath  of  sweetest  early  flowers, 
Dawn  of  golden  summer  hours, 
Glancing  of  the  swallow's  wing 
On  the  low  eaves  in  the  spring, 
Bring  no  joy  like  this  refrain, 
'  Home  again, — home  again.' 

Sounds  of  merry  little  feet, 
Flying  out  my  own  to  meet, 
Clasping  of  soft  hands  in  mine, 
Glances  that  with  pleasure  shine, 
Kisses  showered  around  like  rain- 
'  Home  again, — home  again.' 

Sitting  by  the  glowing  hearth, 
With  the  best  beloved  of  earth, — 
Leaning  on  the  faithful  breast, 
Where  contentedly  I  rest; 
Relinked  in  love's  holy  chain, — 
'  Home  again, — home  again.' 


HOME    AGAIN.  27 


Not  the  Orphean  lyre  of  old, 
Such  delicious  music  told, 
As  the  loving  words  I  hear, 
Falling  softly  on  my  ear; 
Balm  for  weariness  and  pain, — 
'  Home  again, — home  again.' 


NO    MORE. 


Marie,  Marie  ! 
I  call  thy  name,  but  oh !  no  sound  replyeth, 

Save  a  low  moan  within  my  grieving  heart  ; 
And  the  night-wind  that  round  my  casement 

sigheth ; 
They  only  answer,  and  I  feel  thou  art 

No  more  ! 

Marie,  Marie  ! 
Thou  so  beloved,  so  beautiful  and  good ! 

Thou  sleepest  like  the  sisterhood  of  flowers; — 
Flown  like  a  spring-bird  from  the  wintry  wood ; — 

Thou  wilt  come  singing  through  our  earthly 

bowers 

No  more  ! 

Marie,  Marie  ! 
I'm  thinking  of  one  glorious  summer's  day, 

When,  by  the  lake  that  dimples  near  the  wood, 
I  sat  with  thee  till  twilight  fled  away : — 
But  thy  glad  voice  will  wake  its  solitude 

No  more ! 


NO    MORE.  29 

Marie,  Marie  ! 
One  pure  white  lily  floated  on  the  lake ; 

I  thought  'twas  like  thyself,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
And  now  I  '11  call  it  Marie,  for  thy  sake; 
For  thou,  and  I,  amid  the  flowers  shall  meet 

No  more ! 

Marie,  Marie  ! 
Within  my  shadowed  heart  thine  image  glows; 

I  see  the  rose-leaf  cheek,  the  soft  brown  eyes; 
A  nameless  charm  expression  o'er  it  throws, — 
Life  seerneth  there,  but  oh!  in  thee  it  lies 

No  more  ! 

Marie,  Marie  ! 
Wilt  thou  not  waken  with  the  rose  in  June  ? 

Wilt  fly  to  us,  sweet  dove,  from  Eden's  shore  ? 
It  cannot  be !  but  I  shall  meet  thee  soon, 

Where  parting  sorrow  alls  the  heart  no  more — 

No  more ! 


A  THANKSGIVING-DAY  SCENE. 


Around  the  old  familiar  hearth, 

A  loving  group  have  met : 
A  grandsire  with  his  silver  locks, 

On  earth  a  lingerer  yet ; 
A  mother  with  her  mild,  sweet  face, — 

The  babe  upon  her  knee ; 
The  absent  ones  returned  again, 

Join  in  the  jubilee. 
A  maiden,  like  some  lovely  flower, 

That  scents  the  breath  of  spring ; 
And  children,  like  a  wreath  of  buds, 

Adorn  the  gathering. 

Now  brightly  burns  the  festal  fire, 
And  eyes  as  brightly  beam  ; 

While  merry  voices  stir  the  heart, 
Like  a  delightful  dream. 

Kind  words,  like  Hermon's  sacrod  dew, 


A    THANKSGIVING    SCENE.  31 

From  lips  beloved  fall  ; 
And  little  ones  with  careless  glee, 

Make  music  in  the  hall. 
But  as  the  evening  shadows  creep 

O'er  hill  and  valley  fair, 
The  grandsire  clasps  his  withered  hands, 

And  all  bend  low  in  prayer. 

Why  gathers  in  the  old  man's  eye 

A  bright  and  burning  tear  ? 
He  thinks  of  one  beyond  the  stars, 

Who  was  his  sunbeam  here  ; — 
He  gazes  on  her  vacant  chair, 

Then  bows  his  lonely  head ; 
Alas!  how  many  hearts  to-day 

Sigh  for  a  dear  one  dead  ! 
Thus,  ever  mingled  with  our  joys, 

Will  come  the  sad  regret ; — 
The  yearning  heart  pines  for  the  lost, 

And  never  can  forget. 


NIGHT. 


"The  day  is  for  the  work-shop  of  life;  the  night  is  its 
diurnal  Sabbath." — A.  STEVENS. 


How  still !  how  beautiful !  the  balmy  air 
Toys  with  the  tresses  of  the  willow  near  ; 

And  rocks,  with  fingers  light,  the  lily  fair, 
Cradled,  like  Moses,  by  the  waters  clear. 

In  light  and  shade  the  uplands  sleeping  lie ; 

And  through  dim  woods  Diana's  arrows  quiver ; 
And  stars,  the  harps  of  angels,  gem  the  sky, 

Tuned  to  the  praises  of  the  Lamb  forever. 

How  still !  how  beautiful !  the  placid  deep, 
Flooded  with  moonlight,  stretches  far  away; 

And  calm-bound  ships  upon  its  bosom  sleep, 
Like  white-winged  sea  gulls,  waiting  for  the 
day. 


NIGHT.  33 

How  like  the  Sabbath  conies  the  holy  night ! 

Serene,  and  pure,  the  blessed  time  of  rest ; 
Peopling  the  earth  with  angel  spirits  bright, — 

Op'ning  the  temple  of  the  heart  for  worship 
blest. 


THE  BRIDE'S  SISTER'S  FAREWELL 


0  sister,  darling,  though  I  smile,  hot  tears  are  iu 

my  heart, 

But  I  will  strive  to  keep  them  there,  or  hide  them 
if  they  start  : 

1  know  you've  seen  our  mother's  glance  oft/times 

o'er  full  of  woe  ; 

The  grief-sob  rises  to  the  lips,  that  bid  her  first 
born  go. 

It  is  not  that  she  doubts  his  love,  to  whom  thou'st 
given  thine, — 

The  fear  that  he  may  coldly  look  upon  his  clasp 
ing  vine ; 

But  O  she  feels,  however  loved  and  cherished  as 
his  wife, 

However  calm  her  lily  floats  a-down  the  stream 
of  life ; 


THE    BRIDES    SISTERS    FAREWELL.  OO 

Yet  sometimes  threatening  clouds  will  rise,  and 

dim  thy  sunniest  day, 
And  silent  tears  steal  down  thy  cheek,  though 

kissed  by  love  away  ; 
And  she  will  not  be  near  her  flown,  to  lay  it  on 

her  breast, — 
'Tis  thus — 'tis  thus  the  young  birds  fly  and  leave 

a  lonely  nest ! 

O  sister,  darling,  I  shall  miss  thy  foot-fall  on  the 

stair, 
Beside  my  own,  when   good-night  words    have 

followed  evening  prayer ; 
And  miss  thee  from  our  pleasant  room,  and  miss 

thee  when  I  sleep  ; 
And   feel  no  more  thy  twining    arms    and  soft 

breath  when  I  weep. 

And  I   shall  gaze  with  tearful   eyes   upon   thy 

vacant  chair, — 
Sweet  sister,  wherefore,  wherefore  go?  {tis  more 

than  I  can  bear  ! 
Forgive  me,  Lizzie,  do  not  weep, — I'm  strong 

again  and  calm, 
"Our  Father"   for   my  aching  heart  will  send  a 

spirit-balm. 


36         THE  BRIDE'S  SISTER'S  FAREWELL. 

Now  let  me  bind  this  snowy  veil  amid  thy  silken 

hair  ; 
The  white  moss-rose,  and  orange-buds,  upon  thy 

bosom  fair  ; 
How  beautiful  you  are  to-night !   does  love  such 

charms  impart  ? 
An  angel's  wing,  methinks,  has  stirred  the  waters 

of  your  heart ; 

So  holy  seem  its  outlets  blue,  where  sparkle  yet 

the  tears, 
Like  stars  that  tremble  in  the  sky  when  not  a 

cloud  appears. 
Art  ready  now?    The  evening  wanes;  the  guests 

will  soon  be  here, — 
And  the  glad  bridegroom  waits  his  own.     God 

bless  thee,  sister  dear  ! 


'YES,  AS  A  CHILD.' 


"  Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her." 

LONGFELLOW. 

0  say  not  so !  how  shall  I  know  my  darling, 

If  changed  her  form,  and  veil'd  with  shining  hair  ? 
If,  since  her  flight,  has  grown  my  little  starling, 

How  shall  I  know  her  there  ? 
On  memory's  page,  by  viewless  fingers  painted, 

1  see  the  features  of  my  angel-child  ; 

She  passed  away,  ere  sin  her  soul  had  tainted, — 
Passed  to  the  undefined. 

O  say  not  sol  for  I  would  clasp  her,  even 
As  when  below  she  lay  upon  my  breast ; 
And  dream  of  her  as  my  fair  bud  in  heaven, 

Amid  the  blossoms  blest. 
My  little  one  was  like  a  folded  lily, 
Sweeter  than  any  on  the  azure  wave ; 
But  night  came  down,  a  starless  night,  and  chilly; 

Alas!  we  could  not  save  I 
3* 


38  YES,  AS  A  CHILD. 

Yes,  as  a  child,  serene  and  noble  poet, 

(O   heaven  were  dark,  were   children    wanting 

there ! ) 
I  hope  to  clasp  my  bud  as  when  I  wore  it ; 

A  dimpled  baby  fair. 
Though  years  have  flown,  toward  my  blue-eyed 

daughter, 

My  heart  yearns  oft'times  with  a  mother's  love; 
Its  never-dying  tendrils  now  enfold  her, — 
Enfold  my  child  above. 

E'en  as  a  babe,  my  little  blue-eyed  daughter, 
Nestle  and  coo  upon  my  heart  again ; 
Wait  for  thy  mother  by  the  river-water, — 

It  shall  not  be  in  vain  ! 

Wait  as  a  child  ; — how  shall  I  know  my  darling, 

If  changed  her  form,  and  veil'd  with  shining  hair  ? 

If,  since  her  flight,  has  grown  my  little  starling, 

How  shall  I  know  her  there  ? 


THE  APRIL  SUN-SHOWER. 


Sparkling  in  the  sun-light, 

Dancing  on  the  hills, 
Tapping  on  my  window, 

Singing  in  the  rills, 
Comes  the  pleasant  sun-shower, 

Like  a  glad  surprise, 
While  I  gaze  with  wonder 

On  the  changeful  skies. 

I  '11  forth  to  the  wood-lands, — 

Violets  are  awake ; 
Gaily  sings  the  red-breast, 

Hiding  in  the  brake. 
Through  the  budding  forest 

Not  a  zephyr  sighs  ; — 
Soft  the  air,  and  dreamy 

As  a  lover's  eyes. 


40  THE    APRIL    Sl'X-SHOWF.K, 

Pleasant  is  the  warm  rain 

Dropping  on  my  brow, 
As  the  tears  that  fell 

From  eyes  that  slumber  now. 
Look  !  what  bright  mosaic 

Arches  all  the  west ! 
Resting  on  the  uplands, — 

On  old  ocean's  breast ! 

Is  it  but  a  portal 

To  homes  in  yonder  blue, 
That  the  viewless  angels 

E'en  now  enter  through  ? 
Looking  down  the  vista 

Of  the  years  I  've  trod, 
Mem'ry  brings  life's  sun-showers. 

Thanks  to  thee,  O  God, 

That  so  few  the  storm-clouds 

Whence  no  sun-light  streamed ; 
That  so  oft  a  rainbow 

On  their  darkness  beamed  ; 
Through  which  hopes,  like  angels, 

Passed  adown  from  heaven  ; 
Through  which  praise  ascended, 

For  a  blessing  given. 


MORE  AIR  !    MORE  LIGHT  ! 


"  More  air  !  more  light !  "  were  the  words  of  a  dying 
friend. 

Dearest,  more  air !  more  air ! 
Throw  up  the  casement,  let  it  lift  my  hair ; 
Let  it  around  my  dying  temples  play, 
While  yet  I  linger  on  my  home-ward  way; 
Oh  sweet  it  is  on  earth,  but  sweeter  there, 
In  heaven,  where  all  is  fair. 

Give  me,  too,  light,  more  light ! 
That  I  may  see  the  hand  that  claspeth  mine ; — 
Shut  not  the  morning  from  these  weary  eyes ; 
I  never,  never  more  shall  see  it  rise  : 
Let  the  bright  sun-light  on  my  pillow  shine  ; 
Dearest,  more  light!  more  light ! 

Will  ye  not  give  me  light, 
That  I  may  see  thy  face,  my  noble  boy, 


42  MORE    AIR  !    MORE    LIGHT  ! 

Close  to  thy  mother's,  bending  o'er  me  low  ? 
Or  is  it  Death  that  veileth  all  below  ? 
Ah,  yes!  but  heaven,  so  full  of  light  and  joy, 
Dawns  on  me  now  !  'tis  light ! 

Now  in  celestial  air, 

His  weary  spirit  bathes  her  spotless  wings ; — 
Freed  from  the  dust  of  earth  it  folds  them  there, 
Close  by  the  river  pure,  where  all  is  fair ; 
And  re-united  with  beloved  ones,  sings; — 
She  sing*  forever  there. 


V  E  R  M  O  N  T . 

"THE  STAR  THAT  NEVER  SETS." 


Where  with  stars  are  crown'd  the  mountains, 

Far  away, 
Gush  from  rocks  the  silvery  fountains, 

In  their  play; 

Where  the  forests,  deep  and  olden, 
Scarce  admit  the  sun-light  golden  ; 
Where  the  rivers  flow  on,  singing 

Soft  and  low ; 
And  the  water-falls  are  ringing 

Down  below, 

Tumbling,  plashing,  foaming  madly, 
Where  the  vales  are  smiling  gladly, 
Filled  with  flocks  but  newly  shorn, 

Fair  as  morn, 
'Mid  the  mountains,  I  was  born, 

I  was  born ! 


44  VERMONT. 

There  the  snow-white  cot  reposes, 

By  the  mill ; 
O'er  it  climbing  prairie  roses, 

Clinging  still : 

And  the  farm-house,  old  and  roomy, 
Glimmers  through  the  hemlocks  gloomy  \ 
There  the  fields  are  fair  as  Aidenn, 

Blossoming ; 
And  the  maples,  sugar-laden 

In  the  spring ; 

There  the  people,  noble  hearted, 
Ne'er  from  liberty  departed ; 
Free  as  their  own  mountain  air, 

Each  a  Tell, 
Were  a  Gesler  weaving  there 

Tyrant's  spell, 

There  in  autumn  woods  I  pondered, 

Woods  so  gay  : 
With  my  blue-eyed  sisters  wandered, 

Far  away ; 

Weaving  crowns  from  leaflets  frost-bright, 
In  the  sweet  October  sun-light ; 
Filled  with  shining  nuts  my  apron, 

Burden  light, 
From  the  chestnut,  newly  shaken, 


VERMONT.  4 

With  delight. 

Scared  the  squirrel  from  his  hiding — • 
See  him  o'er  the  stone  wall  gliding  1 
Where  the  mountains  woo  the  sky, 

Soaring  high, 
Passed  my  childhood  merrily, 

Merrily. 

My  mountain  home  !  my  early  home  ! 

How  to  thee 
My  heart  turns,  wheresoe'er  I  roam, 

Silently. 

O  "  Star  that  never  sets,"  thy  child 
Dreams  of  thee  near  the  ocean  wild  ! 
There  sat  I  on  my  father's  knee, 

Father  dear  ; — 
But  now  he's  sleeping  peacefully, 

Sleeping  near  ; — 

A  mother's  arms  were  'round  me  thrown, 
No  loss  our  household  band  had  known ; 
With  brothers  sought  I  wood  and  stream, 

Gurgling  stream ; 
There  passed  my  childhood,  like  a  dream, 

Like  a  dream, 
4 


MOTHERLESS. 


To  mark  the  wasting  of  the  cheek  to  which  thine 

own  has  lain, — 
To  feel  the  quickenir/g  of  the  pulse  and  know  it 

is  from  pain, — 
To  clasp  the  snowy  hand  in  thine  and  feel  its 

pressure  less, — 
O  God  !  to  gaze  on  her  and  know  thou  wilt  be 

motherless  ! 

To  turn,  and  leave  her  in  the  grave, — the  bitterest 

hour  of  all, — 
The  dear  old  homestead,  it  is  dark,  and  silence 

in  the  hall ; — 
To  shun  all  earthly  comforters  in  thine  sntold 

distress, 
And  feel  that  none  are  desolate,  who  are  not 

motherless. 

To  sit  beside  her  vacant  chair  and  dream  of  days 
gone  by ;— 


MOTHERLESS.  47 

May  be  thy  cold  or  careless  words  have  made  her 

bosom  sigh  ; 
You  may  have  torn  her  clasping  heart,  and  yet  it 

clung  not  less, — 
You  start  and  cry — forgive !    forgive  !    but  oh  ! 

are  motherless. 

To  see  her  in  thy  troubled  dreams, — she  bendeth 

o'er  thy  bed  ; 
Her  soft,   her  cool   and  loving  hand  upon  thy 

burning  head; 
She  pointeth  upward,  and  her  lips  thy  fevered 

forehead  press  ; — 
You  rise  and  know  that  she  is  near,  you  are  not 

motherless. 


SPRING. 


She  is  with  us  !  she  is  with  us ! 

For  I  list  her  gentle  sigh, 
And  her  music  tones  of  gladness, 

Floating  through  the  branches  dry. 
Now  the  south  wind  lifts  the  carpet 

Spread  beneath  the  forest  old  ; 
Waketh  up  the  scented  violet 

From  her  bed  of  richest  mould. 

Softly  trills  the  little  sparrow, 

Pecking  seeds  from  out  the  sod  ; 
And  the  robin,  o'er  me  flying, 

Lifts  his  anthem  up  to  God. 
To  the  hollow  oak  returneth, 

Yet  again,  the  blue-bird  bright ! 
And  the  quail  beside  the  hedges 

Runs  and  whistles  with  delight. 

Now  the  brooklet  is  unfettered, 
Swollen  by  the  melted  snow ; 
Shining  like  a  thread  of  silver, — 


SPRING, 

Singing  through  the  vale  below ; 
Tokens  of  the  happy  spring  time, 

On  the  hill-side  by  the  brook  ; 
Emerald  grasses,  velvet,  mosses, 

Smile  from  many  a  sunny  nook. 

On  the  cottage  eaves  alighting, 

Swallows  in  the  sun-light  sing.; 
Filling  all  the  air  around  me 

With  their  joyous  twittering. 
O'er  the  deep  blue  upper  ocean, 

Little  white-vving'd  barges  fly^ 
Melting  out,  like  fairy  phantoms, 

'Neath  the  day-god's  burning  eye. 

Sap  is  welling,  leaf-buds  swelling, 

Springing  towards  their  shining  goal-; 
Bursting  from  their  darkened  dwelling, 

Like  the  freed  immortal  soul. 
Spring  is  with  us !  she  is  with  us'! 

New  life  wakes  in  every  vein  ; 
Fresh  hopes  in  my  heart  are  welling, 

As  I  welcome  her  again ! 
4* 


DO  NOT  CRY,  MOTHER,  SISTER'S  HAPPY." 


The  above  words  were  addressed  by  little  Mary,  nine 
years  of  age,  to  her  mother  who  was  weeping  for  the  loss 
of  her  twin  child.  Too  poor  to  purchase  a  coffin,  she 
solicited  one  of  the  city  authorities,  and  was  now  bearing 
it  on  her  head  through  the  crowded  street  to  her  wretched 
home. 

I  see  her  now  !  — 
The  faded  garments  scarce  suffice 
To  shield  her  from  November  skies ; 

Yet,  doth  she  bow 
With  woman's  meekness  to  her  lot; 
By  all,  except  her  God — forgot. 

With  hurried  tread, 
She  passes  by  the  gay  and  proud, 
Bearing  a  coffin  and  a  shroud, 

Upon  her  head ; 

While  Mary,  through  the  cold  and  sleet, 
Trips  by  her  side  with  naked  feet. 


DO    NOT    CRY,  MOTHER,  SISTER'S    HAPPY.      51 

Home,  home  at  last ! 
E'en  such  as  would  make  Pity's  eye 
With  tears  o'erflow; — no  friend  is  nigh  ; — 

Her  eyes  are  cast, 

O'er  full,  upon  her  dead  child's  face, 
On  which  a  heavenly  smile  I  trace. 

Anear  her  stands 

The  twin-bud,  from  her  heart  that  grew, 
With  soft  eyes  like  the  violet  blue, 

And  tiny  hands 

Clasped  tightly,  in  her  sorrow  deep, 
Watching  her  sister's  silent  sleep. 

Tender  and  low, 

On  her  sweet  voice  float  angel  words, 
Cheering  the  heart  like  summer  birds  : 

"  O  weep  not  so 

Mother,  for  sister's  happy  now, — 
A  radiant  crown  is  on  her  brow. 

"  My  feet  are  bare, 
Pinched  with  cold,  and  blistered  too ; 
But  sister  feels  not  chill,  or  dew; 

And,  mother,  there 
In  yon  blue  Heaven  she  hungers  not, 
As  we  do  now — alone — forgot." 


52      DO    NOT    CRY,  MOTHER,  SISTER'S  HAPPY. 

Thy  years  are  few, 

Thou  child  of  want  and  wretchedness; 
But  oh.  thou  hast  a  power  to  bless, 

Like  silent  dew ; 

Though  poor,  yet  doth  thy  spirit  bear 
Gems  of  more  worth  than  diamonds  rare. 


OH  MINSTREL,  PRAISE  NO  MORE  THE  CUP. 


Oh  Minstrel,  praise  no  more  the  cup 
In  which  the  wine  is  blushing ; 

Drink  to  the  dearest,  but  fill  up 
With  crystal  water  gushing. 

There's  danger  in  the  goblet  fair, 
In  which  the  red  wine  beameth  ; 

Beware  !  beware  !  the  lava,  there, 
A  worthless  ruin  leaveth. 

There's  sorrow  in  the  revel-cup, 

Where  hopes  like  crushed  pearls  lie  ;- 

Drink  to  the  absent, — but  fill  up 
With  nectar  from  the  sky. 

Away  the  cup  !  there  's  ruin  there, 
And  noisy,  sickening  mirth  ; 

The  reeling  brain,  the  vacant  stare, 
And  anguish  there  have  birth. 


54      OH    MIXSTREL    PRAISE    NO    MORE    THE    CUP. 

I  know  thou  hast  a  noble  soul, 
Kind,  generous,  unchained  ; 

Then  praise  no  more  the  Bach'nal  bowl, 
To  tempt  the  lip  unstained. 

Aye,  fear  to  wake  the  slumbering  flame 

Of  passions,  that  transform 
The  God-like  soul,  till  but  the  name 

Of  man  is  left, — a  wreck  forlorn  ! 

Then  laud  no  more  the  goblet  bright ; — 
A  thoughtless  word  has  power, 

Oft'times,  a  fearful  flame  to  light, 
Unquenched  by  tears  that  shower. 

Raise  lightly  up  the  festal  cup, 

And  pledge  the  good  and  brave; 
But  not  in  wine; — fill  up  !  fill  up  ! 
cool  drink  from  the  wave. 


MY    FATHER. 


I  see  him  not; — around  the  room  I  look ; — 
There  stands  his  chair,  and  there  the  open  book, 
With  pages  marked,  upon  his  table  lying, 
From  which  he  read,  while,  gently,  life  was  flying. 

I  hear  him  not ; — I  listen  for  him  yet ; 

The  greeting  kind,  with  which  he  daily  met 

Me  at  the  door ;  I  miss  his  feeble  tone, 

His  slow,  faint  foot-fall, — oh  the  sound  hath  flown  I 

Yet  he  is  near,  although  I  hear  him  not ; — 
Though  he  is  viewless  as  a  hidden  thought ; — 
Though  I  shall  clasp  his  withered  hand  no  more, 
He  loves  and  watches  o'er  me  as  before. 

Oh  father  !  father  !  dost  thou  hear  thy  child  ? 
Seest  thou  the  anguish  in  my  bosom  wild? 
Dost  note  the  tears  that  down  my  pale  face  creep, 
The  vain  regrets  that  haunt  me  e'en  in  sleep  ? 


56  MY    FATHER. 

Oh  then  forgive  each  act  that  ever  grieved  ; — 
Each  word  undutiful  from  me  received  ; — 
Tones  that  fell  coldly  on  thy  loving  heart, 
While  I  was  all  unconscious  of  the  dart ! 

Thou  wilt !   thou  wilt !    I  love   and   mourn  the 

dead  ; — 

Soon  shall  I  sleep  beside  thy  frost-bound  bed  ;— - 
Then  to  my  soul  may  spotless  robes  be  given, 
That  I  may  with  thee,  father,  rest  in  Heaven, 


GOOD   NIGHT. 


Good  night !  good  night !    I  know,  dear  one, 

My  voice  thou  canst  not  hear  ; 
But  I  would  waft  it,  ere  I  sleep, 

Unto  thy  spirit's  ear. 

Good  night !  good  night !  how  much  of  love 

In  simplest  words  is  thrown  ; 
If  given  with  affection's  glance, 

In  sweet  and  gentle  tone. 

Good  night !  good  night !  I  '11  dream  of  thee, 

And  fancy  thou  art  near  ; 
Answer  me,  dearest ; — though  afar, 

My  listening  heart  will  hear. 

Good  night !  good  night !  may  angels  watch 

Beside  thee  calmly  sleeping ; 
And  shield  thee  with  their  gentle  wings, 

From  every  danger  keeping. 
5 


58  GOOD    NIGHT. 

Good  night !  good  night !  upon  thy  heart, 

Beloved,  I  would  rest, 
As  doth  the  star  upon  the  wave, 

When  night  steals  o'er  the  west. 

Good  night !  good  night !  within  thy  heart 

Hold  me,  as  lilies  sweet 
Enclose  the  pale  moon's  silver  ray; — 

'Tis  night  until  we  meet  ! 


DEATH  OF  MRS.  OSGOOD. 


I  'in  passing  through  the  Eternal  gates,— • 

Ere  June's  sweet  roses  blow 
Death's  lovely  angel  leads  me  there, 

And  it  is  sweet  to  go. 

MRS.  OSCOOD. 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  go" — thus  sang  she  like  a  bird; 

Her  joyous  wings  freed  from  their  fragile  prison ; 
And,  O,  what  rapture  her  pure  spirit  stirred, 

As  leaving  earth,  she,  lark-like,  sang  to  Heaven. 

Her  graceful  form  has  faded  from  my  vision  ; 

The  lute  is  silent  that  she  touched  below  • 
But  O  she  clasps  her  babe  in  fields  Elysian, 

And  smiling,  singeth — "  It  is  sweet  to  go." 

She  stayed  not  for  the  waking  of  June  roses, — 
An  angel  led  her  where  they're  fairer  far; 

How  gently  on  his  bosom  she  reposes ! 

"  'Twas  sweet  to  go" — and  Ileav'n  has  gained 
a  star. 


TO    MEMORY. 


Oh  Memory  dear  ! 
Why  wilt  thou  wander  in  the  darkened  past, 

Like  a  lone  dove  above  the  waters  wild  ? 
For  oh,  no  olive  may'st  thon  bear  at  last 

Unto  earth's  sorrowing,  earth's  arkless  child. 

Oh  Memory  sad  ! 
Bring  me  no  more  the  voices  of  the  loved, 

Whose  gentle  tones  I  ne'er  again  shall  hear  ; 
Bring  not  the  forest  paths,  where  oft  I  roved 
With  those  now  sleeping  in  the  church-yard 
drear. 

Oh  Memory  sad  ! 
Bring  me  no  dream  of  joys  that  come  no  more! 

Such  mournful  gifts  my  spirit  cannot  bear — 
The  hopes  that  ruined  while  a  smile'they  wore, — 

The  broken  friendships,  and  love  false  as  fair. 


TO    MEMORY. 


61 


Oil  Memory  sad ! 
Bring  ne'er  again  the  gaze  of  loving  eyes, — 

Those  soft,  dark  eyes,  that  wept  upon  my  heart 
'Mid  the  farewell  unspoken  ; — sundered  ties, — 

O  !  how  their  mem'ry  bids  the  hot  tears  start! 

But,  Memory  sweet ! 
Bring  to  my  yearning  spirit  sunny  hours, — 

The  few  that  cheered  me  on  life's  desert  way, 
Like  the  oasis,  with  its  dewy  flowers, 

Glad'ning  the  waste  where  weary  trav'lers  stray. 

Oh  Memory  sweet ! 
Bring  to  my  heart  the  soothing  draught  it  craves, 

Show  it  some  ray  of  light  from  by-gone  hours  ;— 
Reveal  a  rainbow  o'er  the  darkened  wave, 

Sad,  sweet  memory — bring  thy  fairest  flowers.! 


I  PRAY  FOR  THEE,  MOTHER. 


I  pray  for  thee  every  night,  mother ; 
I  pray  for  thee  every  night, 

When  the  shadows  fall 

Like  a  mist,  o'er  all, 
And  the  vesper  star  shines  bright. 

I  kneel  in  my  chamber  dim,  mother, 
Where  the  soft  wind's  touch  I  note, 

And  the  breathings  mild, 

Of  my  sleeping  child, 
On  the  waves  of  silence  float. 

I  pray  that  the  star  of  Hope,  mother, 
May  dawn  on  thy  darkened  way  ; 

That  love,  like  the  air 

Of  the  summer  fair, 
May  some  joy  distil  each  day. 

That  sadness  and  "grief  may  fade,  mother, 
Like  dreams  that  return  no  more ; 


PRAY    FOR    THEE,  MOTHER.  63 

And  the  tears  that  flow 

Be  of  joy, — not  woe, — 

Till  thy  life's  lone  journey  is  o'er. 

At  the  gate  of  every  joy,  mother, 
Lo !  a  Mordecai  sits  ! 

But  never  despair, — 

The  seeming  ill  there 
Our  Father  for  good  permits. 

In  the  darkest  cloud  that  frowns,  mother, 

His  merciful  smile  I  see  ; 
Look  up,  while  bowed, 
To  the  smile  in  the  cloud, — 

A  daughter  prays  for  thee. 


A  WELCOME  HOME. 


'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come. 

BVRON. 

0  the  coming  of  rose-time  is  pleasant  and  sweet, 
With  skies  bright  as  ever  were  seen  ; — 

But  a  glad  voice  to  welcome  my  home-return'd 

feet, 

A  warm  hearted  greeting  when  loved  ones  I  meet, 
They  are  brighter,  and  sweeter,  I  ween. 

A  hand  to  clasp  mine  as  I  enter  the  door, 

Affection  to  answer  my  own  ; 
To  sit  in  its  sun-light,  my  wanderings  o'er, 
While  my  heart  softly  sings,  like  the  Memnon  of 
yore, 

That  the  long  night  of  absence  hath  flown. 

1  care  not  for  riches,  I  ask  not  for  fame, 
But  a  tear  of  regret  when  I  roam  ; 

And  love  that  will  follow  me  ever  the  same, 


A    WEI.COMF.    HOME.  Oil 

And  eyes  that  will  brighten   when  speaking  my 

name, 
And  a  warm  heart  to  welcome  me  home. 

There  are  some  that  await  me  in  yonder  fair  sky, — 
In  dreams  to  my  pillow  they  come  ; 

And  I  know  there  '11  be  joy  in  my  father's  blue 
eye, 

And  my  darling,  my  dove,  to  my  bosom  will  fly, 
When  I  enter  their  beautiful  home. 


ISABEL. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  SONG. 


My  little  wife  has  soft  gray  eyes, — 
If  light  or  dark,  I  scarce  can  tell  ; 

So  deep  the  jetty  fringe  that  lies 

Around  each  truth-containing  well ; — 

I  know  the  winning  power  that  lies 

Within  thy  soft,  gray,  twilight  eyes, 

My  Isabel. 

Her  busy  fingers  all  the  day, 

To  sweet,  contented  thoughts  keep  time ; 
Each  duty  done  in  quiet  way, 

Our  home  she  makes  a  sunny  clime 
Where  I  may  turn  from  chilling  strife, 
To  her  my  beautiful — my  wife, — 

My  Isabel. 

She  listens  for  my  step  at  Eve, 

And  brightly  smiles  when  I  appear ; 

She  saddens  if  a  day  I  leave: 

Fair  tyrant !  she  would  hold  me  near ! 


ISABEL.  67 

Oh  1  should  be  a  wretch  to  grieve, 
Neglect,  or  cruelly  deceive 

My  Isabel. 

If  I  am  merry,  oh  how  rings 

Her  laughter,  musical  and  low ; 
If  sad  and  silent,  then  she  flings 

Around  my  neck  her  arms  of  snow  ; 
If  sickness  comes,  she  soothes  and  tends, 
And  o'er  me  like  an  angel  bends, 

My  Isabel. 

If  she  has  faults,  yet  I  have  more  ; 

(  No  one  is  perfect  here  below ; ) 
My  own  she  throws  love's  mantle  o'er ; 

And  her's,  I  scarce  can  call  them  so ; — 
I  know  she  steals  away  at  Even, 
To  pray  that  each  may  be  forgiven  ; 

My  Isabel. 

I  bless  the  day,  my  Isabel, 

I  bore  thee  from  thy  parent  nest ; 

Within  my  humble  cage  to  dwell, 
And  nestle  to  my  heart  at  rest ; — 

To  fold  thy  wings  beside  my  hearth, 

Until  by  angels  called  from  earth  ; 

My  IsabeL 


SUMMER. 


With  violet  eyes, 

And  breath  as  balmy  as  love's  holy  kiss, 
Thrilling  like  that,  with  sweetest  happiness, 

Glad  summer  flies. 

The  shaded  brook 

Dances  like  childhood  the  fair  vale  along, 
Mingling  delicious  coolness  with  its  song; 

And  every  nook, 

Where  the  bees  dream, — 
Bears  on  its  velvet  bosom  flow'rets  fair ; 
God's  smiles,  beaming  and  blessing  every  where, 

By  wood  and  stream. 

The  forests  dim, 

Are  full  of  melodies,  ascending  up, 
Like  grateful  words,  from  the  heart's  o'erfull  cup  ; 

Incense  to  Him. 


SUMMER.  69 

At  evening  still, 

The  whippoorw ill's  lone  plaintive  voice  I  hear, 
Calling  so  tenderly  afar  and  near ; 

"  Whip-poor-will !  " 

Fair  as  a  dream, 

And  brief  as  fair,  the  summer  hours  so  bright; — 
Orchards  outspread,  and  like  a  snow-fall  light, 

Their  blossoms  seem. 

Sweet  June  roses, 

Climbing  the  trellis, — through  the  lattice  creep 
ing  ;— 
Oh!  how  their  odor  sets  me  thinking,  weeping ; — 

For  one  reposes 

Low  with  the  dead, 

One  who  planted,  watched  their  budding,  closing; 
Faded,  as  they  will, — oh  !  sad,  thus  reposing, 

Ere  they  have  fled  ! 

Linger  yet,  here, 

Beautiful  summer  !  gentle  as  a  tear! 
To  live  is  exquisite,  while  thou  art  here, 

Oh  summer  dear  ! 

Linger  yet  here ! 

Stay,  with  thy  zephyrs,  and  thy  blossoms  glowing  j 
Thine  azure  eyes  are  full  of  love  o'erflowing, 

Oh  summer  dear  ! 
6 


70  THE  MOTHER'S  OFFERING. 

Fold  thy  wings  here  ! 

Nestle  beside  me,  bird  of  beauty  sweetest ; 
Fly  not,  like  youth  and  hope,  on  pinion  fleetest, 

Oh  summer  dear ! 


A  MOTHER'S  OFFERING. 


My  babe,  to  thy  low  couch  I  bring 
Flowers — they  are  love's  own  offering  ;- 
Look  from  thy  blissful  home  above, 
Thy  mother  calls  thee — gentle  dove  ! 

Tread  softly  where  my  daughter  lies, 
With  beauty  on  her  soft  clos'd  eyes ; 
Like  a  white  rose-bud,  Angels  keep, 
Folded  beneath  the  stars  to  sleep. 

Speak  softly  near  my  daughter's  bed, 
The  oak-leaves  whisper  o'er  her  head  ; 
Wet  with  the  silent  dew,  I  bring 
Flowers — they  are  love's  own  offering. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  SNOW-FLAKES. 


"  Don't  hurt  it,  there  's  an  angel  in  it/" 

"  O  look,  dear  Mae — how  beautiful! 

How  fast  the  snow-flakes  fall ; 
Like  doves,  they  nestle  on  the  top 

Of  our  old  elm  so  tall. 
They  come  so  very  soft  and  warm, 

So  very  large  and  white." 
Mae  saw,  and  clapped  her  little  hands, 

And  shouted  with  delight ; 
She  stretched  her  rosy  fingers  out, 

And  clasped  a  flake  of  snow  ; 
The  sister  cried — "Don't  hurt  it,  Mae, 

An  angel's  there,  I  Icnoio." 

O  many,  many  things  we  touch, 

With  hand  ungentle,  rude, 
Would  seem  to  us  an  angel's  home, 

If  with  pure  spirit  viewed. 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    SNOW    FLAKES. 

In  the  deep  penitential  sigh, — 

The  discipline  of  woe, — 
The  aspiration  pure  and  high, — 

An  angel  dwells,  I  know. 

A  mother's  smile,  a  mother's  prayer, — 
Her  warning  whispered  low  ; — 

The  memory  of  a  mother's  face, — 
An  angel 's  there,  I  know. 

The  glance,  the  word,  the  deed  of  love, 

Oft  slighted  here  below  ; 
Its  simplest  token,  crush  it  not, — 

An  angel 's  there,  I  know. 


TOO  LATE. 


Too  late  !  too  late ! 

Oh  in  that  sound,  what  plaintive  meaning  lies, 
Like  a  reproachful  tear  in  loving  eyes ; 
Sad  as  the  death-note  of  a  wounded  bird, 
Low  by  the  listn'ning  spirit  it  is  heard  ; 
Stirring  it  sadly  with  its  mournful  tone. 
E'en  like  a  griev'ing  suff'ring  infant's  moan. 

Too  late !  too  late  ! 

How  does  it  fall  upon  the  wand'rer's  ear, 
As,  with  a  quicken'd  step,  he  draweth  near 
The  darken'd  home,  where  once  she  used  to  dwell, 
Whose  heart  was  broken  when  he  bade  farewell. 
Alas !  he  comes  too  late — too  late  to  save — 
His  bitter  tears  fall  on  her  early  grave ! 

Too  late — too  late — 
Came  from  a  tyrant  father's  golden  store, 
The  wealth  his  dying  child  could  prize  no  more: 
6* 


74  TOO    LATE. 

Long  years  of  want  and  woe,  their  work  had  done; 
Her  hopes,  her  comforts,  perish'd  one  by  one ; 
And  now  while  Angels  for  her  spirit  wait, 
The  stern  old  man  relents — but  all  too  late  ! 

Too  late — too  late, 

Came  laurel  garlands  for  the  Poets's  brow  ; — 
The  voice  of  Fame,  it  cannot  charm  him  now  ; 
Swan-like  his  spirit  pour'd  its  sweetest  strains 
O'er  life's  dark  waters,  ne'er  to  waft  again 
Tones  pure  and  sweet,  but  sad  as  dim  woods  sigh 
ing; 

The  world  pas'd  on,  and  reck'd  not  he  was   dy 
ing  ! 

Too  late — too  late, 

Came  to  a  famish'd  mother,  with  her  child 
Clasped  to  her  bosom,  mid  the  tempest  wild, 
Shelter  and  food ; — she  slept,  but  woke  no  more, 
The  King's  gate  entering  from  beg'ry's  door  ! 
From  her  cold  breast  look'd  up  the  baby  fair, 
And  toy'd  with  the  long  treses  of  her  hair. 

Too  late,  too  late, 

Pleadeth  a  father  with  his  erring  child, 
By  the  dread  wine-fiend  bloated  and  defil'd ; 


TOO    LATE.  tit 

And  O,  a  pang  it  adds  unto  despair, 

That  his  example  was  the  tempter  there  ! 

He  mourns  the  flame  he  kindl'd,  but  in  vain — 

Tears  may  not  quench  it,  tho'  they  fall  like  rain. 

Too  late,  too  late, 

Life's  sweetest  blessings  come  oft  to  the  heart, 
Just  as  the  soul  is  longing  to  depart ; 
Like  sunlight  falling  on  a  frost-chill'd  flower, 
To  cheer,  revive,  it  has  no  longer  power  ; 
And  dew  may  fall,  the  tears  of  holy  Eve, 
But  all  too  late  to  bid  the  blossom  live. 

But  if  too  late, 

O  if  too  late  we  knock  at  mercy's  door, 
Where  Christ  has  stood  entreating  o'er  and  o'er ; 
With  arms  outstrech'd,  neath  golden  portals  smil 
ing, 

Our  sinful  hearts  in  vain  from  earth  beguiling, — 
O !  if  too  late  we  answer  to  his  call, 
What  are  earth's  woes,  to  that  last  woe  of  all  ? 


THE  ANGEL  BY  THE  HEARTH. 


They  tell  me  unseen  spirits 
Around  about  us  glide  ; 
Beside  the  stilly  waters, 
Our  erring  footsteps  guide; 
'Tis  pleasant  thus  believing 
Their  ministry  on  earth  : 
I  know  an  Angel  sitteth 
This  moment  by  my  hearth. 

If  false  lights,  on  life's  waters, 
To  wreck  my  soul  appear, 
With  finger  upward  pointing, 
She  turns  me  with  a  tear  ; 
'Twere  base  to  slight  the  warning, 
And  count  it  little  worth, 
Of  her,  the  loving  Angel, 
That  sitteth  by  my  hearth. 

She  wins  me  with  caresses, 
From  passion's  dark  defiles ; 


THE    AXtJEL    IJV    THE    HEARTH.  f  t 

She  guides  me  when  I  falter, 
And  strengthens  me  with  smiles. 
It  may  be  unseen  Angels, 
Beside  me  journey  forth  ; 
I  know  that  one  is  sitting 
This  moment  by  my  hearth. 

A  loving  wife — O  brothers, 

An  Angel  here  below ; 

Alas  !  your  "  eyes  are  holden," 

Too  often  'til  they  go ; 

Ye  upward  look  while  grieving, 

When  they  have  pass'd  from  earth ; 

O  cherish  well  those  sitting 

This  moment  by  the  hearth. 


PLEASANT  HOURS. 


'Tis  pleasant  when  the  Spring  days  come, 
To  wander  thro'  the  budding  wood, 
And  listen  to  the  low  sweet  hum 
Of  nature,  in  her  joyous  mood  ; 

To  brush  away  the  crisp  brown  leaves, 
In  search  of  buds  that  scent  the  air  ; 
And  watch  the  robin,  as  she  weaves 
Her  nest  amid  the  branches  bare  ; 

To  listen  to  the  gushing  song, 
The  bob-o-link  sends  far  and  near  ; 
While  all  the  winged  tribe  prolong, 
The  joyful  chorus — "  spring  is  here." 

'Tis  pleasant  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  clouds  in  waves  of  crimson  lie, 
To  watch  the  red  light  fade  away, 
And  holy  stars  appear  on  high. 


PLEASANT    HOURS.  79 

When  summer's  zephyrs  fan  the  face, 
Bath'd  in  the  moon's  religious  light  ; 
And  queenly  flovv'rs  in  their  embrace, 
Enfold  the  blessed  tears  of  night. 

'Tis  sweet,  with  one  beloved  well, 
By  the  cool,  rippling  beach  to  stray  ; 
Where  murmurs  seem  to  say  "  farewell  !  " 
Recalling  friends  long  passed  away. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  the  harvest  field 
Is  merry  with  the  reapers'  voice; 
And  golden  ears  in  plenty  yield, 
Making  the  husbandman  rejoice  ; 

When  myriad  insect  voices  fill 
The  quiv'ring  air  with  dreamy  hum  ; 
And  grazing  herds,  beside  the  rill, 
Are  dozing  to  the  beetle's  drum  ; 

To  seek  some  cool,  delicious  nook, 
With  pleasant  thoughts  for  company  ; 
Or  with  a  pencil,  and  a  book, 
Beguile  the  moments  fleeting  by. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  the  winter  storm, 
Like  hungry  wolf,  howls  through  the  sleet,, 
Beside  the  hearth-stone,  bright  and  warm, 
To  join  with  friends  in  commune  sweet ; 


80  PLEASANT    HOURS. 

And  trim  the  light,  and  pile  the  fire, 
And  fill  the  room  with  music's  power ; 
'Till  thought  has  nothing  to  desire, 
Save  for  the  wretched  in  that  hour. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  from  sickness  weak, 
To  feel  a  dear  hand  clasping  mine ; 
And  turn,  the  eyes  I  love,  to  seek, 
And  make  his  faithful  heart  a  shrine, 

Where  all  my  little  griefs  I  pour, 
And  all  my  joys,  that  he  may  share; 
'Till  I  am  sick  and  sad  no  more, 
With  him  to  soothe  and  love  me  there. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  the  home-ward  bound 
Sees  first  afar  the  village  spire  ; 
And  treads  again  the  cherish'd  ground, 
Where  stands  the  cottage  of  his  sire ; 

And  feels  his  mother's  warm  embrace, — 
His  sister's  arms  around  him  twine; 
And  notes  his  father's  alter'd  face 
With  glist'ning  drops  of  pleasure  shine. 

The  faithful  watch-dog  licks  his  hand, 
The  artful  cat  purs  at  his  feet ; 
Returned  from  a  distant  land, 
The  wand'rer  feels  that  home  is  sweet. 


PLEASANT    HOURS.  81 

"Tis  pleasant,  when  the  heart  is  sore, 
With  mem'ries  of  the  faded — lost — 
With  broken  friendships — love  no  more — 
And  dear  ones  on  the  wide  world  tost ; 

With  all  the  vexing  cares  of  life — 
With  fancied  injury — or  wrong — 
The  spirit's  ever  tearful  strife, 
With  passions  that  to  earth  belong  ; 

With  folded  hands  and  bended  knee, 
And  upturn'd,  longing,  tearful  eye ; 
To  lift,  in  heartfelt  fervency, 
A  troubled  prayer  to  God  on  high. 

Then  peace  steals  o'er  the  spirit  tried, 
Like  dawn  upon  the  darken'd  earth  ; 
Mists  roll  away,  and  shadows  glide ; 
Until  resplendent  day  has  birth. 


A    REQUIEM. 


List !  a  death-strain  ! 
There,  in  her  shroud  laid 
Low,  sleeps  a  lov'd  maid  ; 

Ne'er  again, 

On  the  blue  summer  skies, 
To  open  her  loving  eyes  ; 
Ne'er  will  her  gentle  voice 
Bid  my  poor  heart  rejoice. 

See — how  still ! 
Cross'd  on  her  white  breast, 
Calmly  her  hands  rest, 

Pale  and  chill, — 
Never  to  touch  again 
Her  lute's  delicious  strain  ; 
Like  a  soft,  clasping  vine, 
Folded  no  more  in  mine. 


A    REQUIEM.  83 

Dark  as  woe, 
Fringe  of  her  clos'd  lid 
Where  the  blue  eye 's  hid ; — 

Pure  as  snow, 
Smileth  her  forehead  fair, 
Shaded  by  raven  hair  ; 
Dark  as  each  jetty  tress 
Now  is  my  loneliness. 

Mournful  lute  ! 
Breath  a  requiem 
For  a  spirit  flown ', 

O  then,  mute, 
Unstrung,  ever  more  be, 
Since  she  is  lost  to  me  ; 
Aye,  break  like  my  heart  lone, 
Now  all  its  joy  has  flown  ! 

Blessed  sleep  ! 
Come  to  these  dim  eyes 
That  watch  for  morn  skies, 

Watch  and  weep ; 
Watch  by  my  darling's  bed, 
Weep  for  her  spirit  fled  ; 
Dark  are  the  azure  skies, 
Since  she  has  clos'd  her  eyes. 


84  A    WELCOME    TO    JUNE. 

Blessed  sleep  ! 
Balm  for  the  rent  soul, 
Bind  with  sweet  control, 

Eyes  that  weep  ; — 
Fall  thou  like  summer  rain, 
Upon  my  burning  brain ; — 
Alone  she  has  left  me, — 
The  anorels  have  bereft  me  ! 


A  WELCOME  TO  JUNE. 


First-born  of  Summer-time — beautiful  June, 
A  sweet  poem  set  to  melodious  tune  ; 
Azure-eyed  pet,  on  the  breast  of  the  year, 
Flower  crown'd   and  peerless  one — I  welcome 
thee  here. 


MY  SISTER  HARRIET. 


Sweeter  than  the  Spring-time  flowers — 

Pleasant  e'en  as  Summer  showers — 

Gentle  as  thine  eyes  of  blue, 

Where  thoughts  tender,  glimmer  through; 

Pure  as  stars  at  evening  met, 

Is  thy  name,  dear  Harriet. 

Link'd,  that  name,  with  memories  dear — 
Forms  belov'd,  no  longer  near; 
Whisper'd  wheresoever  I  roam, 
In  my  heart  it  has  a  home; 
List'ning  it,  my  eyes  are  wet, — 
Darling  name  of  Harriet. 

Cold  are  words,  should  I  repeat 
The  love  I  bear  thee  Harriet — 
Art  thou  sad  ?  I  sorrow  too ; 
Thy  low  laughter  thrills  me  through, 
Lonely  is  the  gayest  spot, 
Where  thou,  sister  dear,  art  not. 
7* 


t>  MY    SISTER    HARRIET. 

Clung  we  ever  side  by  side, 
Thus,  we'll  cling  whate'er  betide  ; 
And,  if  I  shall  lay  my  head, 
First,  where  willows  shade  the  dead ; 
Tears  of  thine  the  turf  will  wet, 
Darling  sister  Harriet. 


THE  RESTORED. 


Let  me  go  forth  ! 
Lead  me  along  the  foot  path  through  the  wood, 

Where  violets  cluster  mid  the  springing  grass ; 
And  the  glad  robin  rears  her  tuneful  brood, 

And  the  lake  dimples  where  the  zephyrs  pass. 

Like  a  young  child, 
Whose  feet  are  eager  with  their  new  found  power  ; 

Who  totters  to  his  mother  with  a  shout — 
Lo,  my  weak  steps  pass  out,  this  joyous  hour, 

From  a  sick  room  to  the  bright  earth  without. 

The  free,  pure  air 
Bathes  my  pale  forehead  and  my  wasted  cheek  ; 

Its  playful  ringers  lift  my  heavy  hair, 
And  bring  me  perfume  from  the  lily  meek  ; 

And  the  spring  sun  revireth  every  where. 


88  THE    RESTORED. 

Rest  with  me  here  : — 
This  riven  oak  shall  be  my  antique  seat, 

Cushioned  with  moss,  and  'broider'd  with  a  vine; 
O  !  how  my  pulses  with  a  new  life  beat, 

And  my  heart  thrills  with  rapture  half  divine  ! 

Once  more !  once  more  ! 
'Mid  the  green  woods  it  singeth  like  a  bird, 
And  rises  with  an  anthem  to  the  skies  ; — 
Father,  I  thank  Thee !    Thou   my   prayer  hast 

heard, 
And  to  thy  daughter  said  again,  "  Arise." 


THEY  TELL  ME  I  AM  PROUD  AND  COLD. 


They  tell  me  I  am  proud  and  cold, 

And  Friendship's  gentle  voice  despise  ; 

That  in  my  bosom's  icy  fold 
No  tender  yearnings  ever  rise. 

They  say  this  spirit  lone,  I  bear, 
Is  tranquil,  as  are  waves  asleep; — 

They  cannot  see  the  anguish  there, 
For  wrecks  lie  hidden  in  the  deep. 

They  say  the  social  hearth  I  shun, 
And  woman's  winning  smile  and  eye ; 

Oh  !  'tis  that  I  remember  one, 
Beloved  well,  no  longer  nigh  ! 

My  Mary !  soon  this  spirit  lone, 

Thou 'It  welcome  to  thy  home  of  bliss; 

To  mingle  praises  with  thine  own, 
Forgetful  of  the  woes  of  this. 


90   THEY  TELL  ME  I  AM  PROUD  AND  COLD. 

I  think  of  thee  when  stars  shine  forth, 
Like  gentle  eyes  on  nature's  sleep ; 

Then,  darling,  thou  art  near  the  earth, 
An  angel's  watch  o'er  me  to  keep. 

I  see  thee  in  the  soft,  white  cloud, 
That  floats  in  graceful  beauty  by ; 

The  lily  by  the  zephyrs  bow'd, 
Recalls  thine  image  silently. 

'Mid  whisp'ring  leaves  I  hear  thy  voice, 
And  in  the  ripple  on  the  shore ; 

In  all  things  gentle  that  rejoice, 

In  all  things  sweet  that  sigh,  "  no  more !  " 

My  heart  is  like  a  desert  lone — 
She  who  was  all  the  verdure  there, 

The  bright  oasis  all  its  own, 

Leaves  but  her  menrry,  and  despair! 

I'd  ne'er  forget  her  mild,  sweet  face, 
E'en  though  'tis  changed  now,  and  cold ; 

I  'd  ne'er  forget  her  form  of  grace, 
Her  gentle  eyes,  and  locks  of  gold. 

The  loving  heart  I  'd  ne'er  forget, 
That  beat  so  constantly  for  me  ; 
Though  with  the  thought  mine  eyes  are  wet, 
It  is  delicious  misery. 


A    LEAP-YEAR    VALENTINE.  91 

Then  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold, 
For  quenchless  love  is  burning  there ; 

And  grief,  to  human  ears  untold, 
My  Father  gives  me  strength  to  bear. 


A  LEAP-YEAR  VALENTINE. 


I  love  him :  Cupid  bear  the  words ;  (remember 

'tis  leap-year;) 
Whisper  them  gently  to  his  heart,  whisper  them 

in  his  ear  ; — 
Tell  him  that  a  dark-eyed  girl  watches  for  him 

alone  ; — 
Tell  him  that  his  voice  to  her  is  music's  sweetest 

tone  ; — 
Tell  him  life  is  exquisite,  when  he  is  by  her 

side ; — 
Tell  him,  Cupid,  tell  him  true,  that  she  will  be 

his  Bride. 


CONSECRATION  OF  A  CEMETERY. 


We  gather  here,  we  gather  here, 
Not  o'er  a  new  made  grave  to  weep, 
Or  where  the  long  departed  sleep  ; 
But,  while  the  oaks  wave  green  o'er  head, 
We  give  their  shadows  to  the  dead  ; 
The  dead  yet  dear. 

They  '11  gather  here,  the  dead  so  dear ; — 
The  silvery  head  of  age  will  lie 
Beside  the  infant  peacefully ; 
The  strong  man  and  the  maiden,  sleep, 
In  slumber  dreamless,  slumber  deep ; — 
They  '11  gather  here. 

Tread  lightly  here,  tread  lightly  here; 
The  dry  leaves  rustle  as  we  pass ; 
Their  low,  sad  voices  cry,  'Alas ! 
We  once  were  young,  and  fair,  and  bright ; 
Thus  will  your  lov'd  ones  pass  from  sight, 
And  perish  here.' 


CONSECRATION    OF    A    CEMETERY.  93 

Speak  gently  here,  speak  gently  here  ; — 
For  He,  who  Eden's  garden  trod ; 
The  great,  the  good,  the  holy  God  ; 
Is  with  us,  viewless,  all  around, 
Upon  this  consecrated  ground  ; 
And  angels  near. 

We  all  shall  come,  who  now  are  here, 
And  lowly  lie,  and  lowly  lie  ; 
This  calm,  sweet  Oak-grove,  silently. 
Will  woo  the  living  to  the  spot ; 
Oh  never  be  the  dead  forgot, 

Who  '11  gather  here  ! 

Tread  lightly  where  the  lost  will  sleep, 
And  stricken  ones  will  come  to  weep ; — 
Speak  gently  in  this  sacred  spot, — 
We  yield  it  to  the  unforgot ; — 
Our  life-links  all  will  soon  be  riven, — • 
But  wherefore  sigh,  if  in  yon  heaven 
We  hope  to  meet  ? 

8 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 


Is  there  on  earth  a  love  so  pure, 

So  strong,  so  patient  to  endure, 

So  constant — changeless,  though  it  meet 

No  fond  return — no  token  sweet  ? 

E'en  though  ingratitude  may  sting, 

A  mother  to  her  child  will  cling. 

Her  loving  eyes  watch  carefully 
The  helpless  days  of  infancy  ; 
She  lingers  by  her  darling's  bed, 
And  lays  her  soft  hand  on  his  head : 
She  listens  to  his  breathings  mild, 
And  prays  that  God  will  bless  her  child. 

And  when  the  white  arms  of  her  boy 
Are  twin'd  about  her  neck  in  joy ; 
When  words,  like  broken  music,  fall, 
And  little  feet  pat  through  the  hall ; 
With  gentle  hand  she  guides  him  on, 
And  murmurs  blessings  on  her  son. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE.  95 

She  gazes  'til  her  thoughtful  eyes 
Grow  softer  with  the  tears  that  rise  ; 
She  fancies  all  his  toil  and  care, 
When  manhood  marks  his  forehead  fair ; 
And  feels  that  all  things,  for  his  sake, 
Her  heart  could  bear,  and  only  break, 

If  on  his  name  fell  guilt  and  scorn, — 

0  better,  then,  were  he  not  born ! 
When  years  pass  on,  and  old  Time  brings 
Both  joy  and  sorrow  on  his  wings, 

With  grateful  heart  she  shares  his  weal, 
And  comforts,  when  she  cannot  heal. 

She  watches,  if  his  cheek  grows  pale, — 
She  watches,  if  his  glad  smile  fail, — 
She  watches,  if  a  sigh  he  breathes, — 
And  if  he  sorrows,  then  she  grieves ; 
She  watches  for  his  safe  return, — 
Through  life,  the  mother  watches  on. 

My  mother,  ne'er  would  I  forget, 
The  love  that  lives  to  bless  me  yet ; 

1  hear  it  in  each  tone  of  thine, — 

I  see  it  when  thine  eye  meets  mine, — 
I  feel  it  in  thy  cool  hand  prest 
Upon  my  head  in  its  unrest. 


96  MARGARET. 

In  all  my  wanderings,  I  bear 
Some  token  of  thy  tender  care  : 
A  father's  love  is  strong  to  bless, — 
A  mother's,  it  is  measureless, 


MARGARET, 


"The  name  of  Margaret  signifies  a  pearl." 

Fair  as  the  lilly's  cup  is  her  young  face, 

Oer  which  expression  plays  with  witching  grace  ; 

Soft  are  the  glances  of  her  eyes  of  blue, 

Like  wood-side  violets  trembling  neath  the   dew  ; 

Lovely  as  ever  won  a  poet's  vow, 

The  playful  arches  of  each  pencil'd  brow; 

And,  like  some  glossy  wing  that  skims  the  air, 

The  soft  brown  locks  upon  her  forehead  fair  : 

Nor  is  this  all  her  wealth ;  her  heart  is  pure,- — 

Her  love  enduring,  and  her  friendship  sure  ; 

No  other  riches  has  this  orphan  girl, 

But  she  is  what  her  name  denotes — a  pearl. 


OF  THEE  I  DREAM. 


The  ocean  sleeps  neath  evening  skies, 
While  on  its  bosom,  imag'd  fair, 
A  pure  and  shining  planet  lies, 
As  if  a  dream  were  nestled  there  ; 
So  on  my  sleep  thy  face  doth  beam, — 
Beloved  one,  of  thee  I  dream ! 

The  ocean  sleeps  neath  evening  skies,- 
How  beautiful,  how  calm,  how  lone  ! 
What  myst'ry  in  its  bosom  lies, — 
How  eloquent  its  mournful  tone ; 
It  tells  me,  I  am  far  from  thee, — 
In  dreams  alone  thy  face  I  see. 

Our  ship,  how  like  a  queen  she  rides 
Upon  the  star  reflecting  tide ; 
But  I  am  sad,  while  on  she  glides, 
For  oh !  she  bears  me  from  thy  side  ! 
A  darkness  o'er  my  heart  doth  creep, 
Star  of  its  night — dawn  on  my  sleep  ! 


98 


DORA. 


Morn  on  the  waters  !  golden  beams 
Flood  the  blue  ocean  with  their  light ; 
So  like  the  morning,  in  my  dreams, 
Beloved  one  you  bless  my  sight : 
Oh  that  the  stars  were  on  the  sea, 
That  I  might  dream  again  of  thee  ! 


DORA. 


Look  not  for  her  beside  the  lake  at  Even, 

By  dim  old  woods,  in  summer's  golden  hours; 

Unto  the  angels,  gentle  Dora's  given, — 

She  sleeps,  the  weary  one,  amid  the  flowers. 

Look  not  for  her,  O  lonely  hearted  brother ; 

Seek  not  with  tears  thy  darling  sister,  now  ; 
Orphans  !  how  closely,  clung  ye  to  each  other, — 

Two  fragile  leaves  upon  a  stricken  bough! 

I  know  in  sleep  she  dawns  upon  thy  vision, — 
Her  soft  blue  eyes  look  on  thee  as  of  yore ; 

You  clasp  her  hand,  and  then,  from  dreams 

Elysian, 
Awake  to  feel,  that  she  is  here  no  more. 


DORA.  99 

Look  not  for  her,  O  husband  pale  and  tearful, — 
Through  orange-groves  her  feet  no  more  will 

stray  ; 
Leaning  on  thee,  with  converse  sweet  and  cheer- 

ful, 
Look  not  for  her — thy  Dora's  pass'd  away. 

Vain  were  soft  zephyrs, — so  they  bore  her,  dying, 
Back  to  the  Northern  home  she  yearn'd  to  see  ; 

And  now,  mid  whisp'ring  oaks,  and  flowers,  she's 

lying, 
While  birds,  above  her,  make  rich  melody. 

They  miss  her  by  the  hearth,  the  board  ;  wherever 
She  sat  with  them,  her  absence  bringeth  pain ; 

She  comes  to  them  no  more,  no  more  forever — 
But  joy  !  oh  joy  !  she  's  met  the  lost  again  ! 

A  father's  arms,  a  mother's,  now  enfold  her ; 

How  sweet  to  meet  them  on  the  spirit  shore — 
Within  our  hearts  alone,  can  we  now  hold  her, 

We  weep,  but  oh  her  tears,  her  tears  are  o'er ! 


THE  BLIND  MINSTRELS. 


A  group  effaces — young,  but  O  not  glad, 

O'ershadow'd  as  with  years  ; 
A  gush  of  music,  low  and  sweet  and  sad, 

As  if  'twas  full  of  tears  ! 

.,    I  hear  those  voices  in  the  forest  lone — 

The  plaining  of  the  wind  ; 
The  sad  farewell  to  hopes  forever  flown, — 
The  music  of  the  Blind. 

"  O  death  in  life ! "  green  woods  and  blossoms 

fair, 
And  faces  dear  and  kind, 

Veil'd  from  the  sight : — with  sunshine  every 

where, 
How  dreadful  to  be  blind  ! 

Blind  !  blind  !  the  windows  of  the  spirit  dark, 
Draped  with  a  starless  night ! 

The  yearning  soul  once  singing  like  a  lark, — 
O  Father  !  give  it  light ! 


MY    CHILD.  101 

And  give  them  strength  to  bear  this  heavy  woe 
Which  Thou  hast  sent  in  love  ; 

Though  drear  the  way,  it  is  not  far  to  go — 
Light — light  for  them  above  ! 


MY  CHILD. 

I  have  a  rosy,  black-eyed  pet, — 

One  darling  bud  alive  ; 
When  Spring-time  brings  the  violet, 

His  years  will  number  five. 

He's  changeful  as  an  April  day, 

As  gentle  as  its  showers  ; 
As  loving  as  the  breath  of  May, 

Amid  the  dewy  flowers. 

His  white  arms  'round  my  neck  he'll  wreathe, 

And  call  me  '  Darling  Mother'  ; 
He  hugs  me  'till  I  scarcely  breathe, — 

In  sweets,  I  almost  smother. 

With  ringlets  flying,  off  he  hies, 

Adown  the  garden  aisle  ; 
Chasing  the  golden  butterflies, 

That  coquet  all  the  while. 


102  MV    CHILD. 

He  nears  them  now  with  merry  shout, 
His  dimpPd  hands  extended  ; 

But  darting  off,  they  dance  about ; — 
His  first  bright  dream  is  ended ! 

He  frolics,  and  the  old  house  rings, 
His  silvery  laughter  leaping  ; 

'Til  with  the  day,  he  folds  his  wings, — 
My  little  Spring-bird's  sleeping  ! 

He  calls  me  "pet  names"  when  I  grieve, 

And  if  I  chide,  he  weeps; 
O  how  his  little  heart  doth  heave, 

When  storms  are  on  its  deeps ! 

For  childhood  has  its  weight  of  pain, 

Its  sorrows  brief,  but  keen ; 
The  insect  laden  with  a  grain, 

Could  bear  no  more,  I  ween. 

His  future  lot  I  may  not  know — 

0  Father  !  hear  my  prayer  ; 

Save  him  from  sin,  and  bitter  woe, — 

1  trust  him  in  Thy  care  ; 

And  thank  Thee,  Thou  hast  lain  so  fair 

A  flow'r  upon  my  bosom  ; 
Few  years  it  has  been  growing  there, 

Just  five,  when  violets  blossom. 


OCTOBER. 


The  pleasant  days  are  here  again, 

The  sweet  October  days, 
Rejoicing  in  the  golden  sun, 

And  welcoming  his  rays; 
The  woods  throw  off  their  faded  green, 

And  clad  in  gala  dress 
Of  every  brilliant  rainbow  hue, 

Wave  in  their  stateliness. 

g 

The  opening  burr  reveals  the  nut, 

Securely  shelter'd  there ; 
And  orchards  bend  beneath  the  weight 

O 

Of  fruit  so  ripe  and  fair ; 
The  farmers  gather  in  their  wealth, 

And  strip  the  yellow  corn, 
While  huntsmen,  eager  for  the  chase, 

Make  musical  the  morn. 


OCTOBER. 

And  though  the  garden  looks  forlorn, 

With  wither'd  blossoms  spread, 
Like  hopes  that  live  a  single  hour, 

And  then  are  faded — dead  ; 
Yet,  brightly  o'er  the  ruins  there, 

The  queenly  dahlia  bends, 
A  benediction,  pure  and  warm 

Above  her  dying  friends. 

The  crimson  berries  of  the  rose, 

'Mid  white  chrysanth'ums  shine; 
And  marigolds  and  zinnias 

With  evergreens  entwine. 
The  summer  clouds  at  set  of  sun, 

Glow  in  the  deep'ning  gray  ; 
E'en  so  the  sunset  of  the  flow'rs, 

So  gorgeous  'mid  decay. 

Sweet  month,   when  gather'd  'round  the 

hearth, 
Beside  the  evening  fire, 

We  talk  of  all  that  Summer  gave, 

And  all  her  gifts  admire ; 
And,  garner  in  our  grateful  hearts, 

The  mem'ry  of  her  sweets, 
Her  wild-flowers  and  her  singing-birds, 

Her  shady,  cool  retreats ; 


THE  SISTER'S  SONG.  105 

Then  of  the  Winter  drawing  near, — - 

His  robes  of  glit'ring  snow  ; 
Of  sleigh-bells  ringing  on  the  air, 

As  merrily  they  go  ; — 
But  though  each  month  some  joy  imparts, 

In  God's  appointed  ways  ; 
Yet  none  are  dearer  to  my  heart, 

Than  these  October  days. 


THE  SISTER'S  SONG. 


O  sisters — sisters  !    I  have  been 

Where  we  in  childhood  dwelt, — 
The  old  home  by  the  mountain  side, 

Where  morn  and  eve  we  knelt ; 
The  shining  poplars,  now,  as  then, 

Are  waving  by  the  door, 
The  maple  wears  its  Autumn  robe 

Of  crimson,  as  of  yore  ; 
The  deep  well,  with  its  mossy  curb, 

Is  standing,  as  of  old  ; 
And  the  grey  bucket  drips  its  wealth 

Adown  the  stones  so  cold. 
9 


106  THE  SISTER'S  SONG. 

I  walked  along  the  garden  paths, 

Where  once  we  used  to  run, 
With  footsteps  like  the  startled  doe's, 

And  hearts  o'erfull  of  fun  ; 
I  linger'd  neath  the  cherry  tree 

Our  father  prun'd  with  care  ; 
And  wept,  for  he — the  loving  group — 

Ah  me  !  they  were  not  there  ! 
I  wandered  to  the  chestnut  grove, 

The  ripe  nuts  strewed  the  ground, — 
The  little  squirrels  scampered  off, 

At  e'en  the  slightest  sound. 

And  there,  through  the  delicious  morn, 

Of  Indian  summer  weather, 
I  filled  my  apron  with  the  nuts, 

As  when  we  went  together. 
I  dream'd  I  was  a  child  again, 

Beside  my  mother's  knee  ; 
Or  bounding  through  the  forest  paths 

With  footsteps  glad  and  free ; 
My  heart,  rock'd  gently  on  the  waves 

Of  pleasant  mem'ries,  sung, 
As  when  we  went  a  nutting  there, 

When  you  and  I  w:ere  young. 


THE  SISTER'S  SONG.  107 

Ah,  sisters,  darlings, — it  is  vain, 

This  yearning  for  the  past ! 
I  will  be  grateful  for  the  good, 

Along  my  pathway  cast  ; 
For  gratitude,  and  cheerfulness, 

Will  change  all  things  to  gold  :— 
With  Love,  the  angel,  in  my  heart, 

That  never  will  grow  old  ; 
And  though  Time  weave  a  silver  thread 

In  every  silken  tress  ; 
I'll  try  to  find  some  gift  of  God's, 

To  succor  and  to  bless. 
Then  we'll  not  mourn  the  days  long  gone, 

Our  childhood's  friends  so  dear  ; 
But  cling  the  closer  to  the  loved, 

That  Time  has  left  us  here. 


NUNIE. 


One  year  ago !  one  year  ago  ! 

'Twas  spring-time,  e'en  as  now, — 

The  gold-finch  swings  as  gracefully 

Upon  the  linden  bough  : 

The  merry  swallows  shine  like  gems, 

Amid  the  vines  green  rings; 

The  deep  dark  ivy  now,  as  then, 

Beside  the  casement  clings. 

The  loving  Southern  zephyrs,  sweep 

Delicious  perfumes  near  ; 

But  O  !  I  bow  my  head  and  weep  ; 

For  Nunie  is  not  here. 

One  year  ago — one  year  ago 

That  was  her  very  chair  ; 

The  noon  sun  thro'  the  lattice  ting'd 

With  gold  her  chestnut  hair ; 

This  is  the  table  where  she  wrote, 

And  yon,  her  snowy  bed ; 

Her  white  hand  clasp'd  this  little  book,- 


NUNIE.  109 

'Twas  here  she  sat  and  read. 
I  know  the  holy  angels  keep 
The  flower  to  us  so  dear  ; 
But  O  !  I  bow  my  head  and  weep, 
For  Nunie  is  not  here. 

I  saw  her  cheek  pale  day  by  day, 

Her  steps  grow  slow  and  weak  ; 

Yet  all  her  sufferings  she  bore, 

With  spirit  strong  and  meek  ; 

We  sought  with  her  our  bay-side  home 

When  summer  days  drew  nigh  ; 

But  ere  the  grape  was  tinged  with  red, 

We  laid  her  down  to  die. 

Like  a  tired  child  she  fell  asleep, 

While  angels  waited  near  ; 

At  rest — O  wherefore  should  I  weep, 

That  Nunie  is  not  here  ? 


9* 


REMEMBER  THE  POOR. 


Blessed  is  he  that  considereth  the  poor." 

PSALMB. 

Go  forth — go  forth  ! 
Want,  misery,  the  by-ways  tread  ; 
The  little  ones  cry  out  for  bread, 

Amid  our  mirth  ; — 
The  starving  ones  of  our  own  land, 
O  reach  to  them  a  helping  hand  ! 

Stern  Winter — lo  ! — 
He  sends  the  wild  winds  in  their  wrath, 
To  cut  o'er  wood  and  wave  a  path ; 

The  joyous  flow, 

Of  rill,  and  gurg'ling  brook,  are  still ; — 
They  but  obey  our  Father's  will. 

Then,  while  ye  rest 
On  'broider'd  cushions^  rich  and  rare, 

0  turn  not  coldly  from  the  prayer 

For  help  address'd  ! 

1  envy  not  the  rich  man's  fate, 
If  want  pleads  vainly  at  his  gate. 


REMEMBER    THE    POOR.  Ill 

O,  as  ye  close 

At  Eve,  around  the  glowing  hearth, 
Think  of  the  poor  upon  the  earth  ; 

As  God  bestows, 

Of  wealth  and  comfort,  freely  give ; 
11  'Tis  blessed,  more  than  to  receive." 

On  angel's  wings, 

Fly  to  the  toil-spent  neighbors's  cot, 
Where  Hope  and  Joy  are  names  forgot ; 

Thy  offerings, 

Spread  on  the  table  scant  and  bare, — 
Kindle  want  on  the  cold  hearth,  there ; 

Then,  will  thy  name, 
From  poverty's  chill  dwelling  rise 
On  grateful  incense  to  the  skies, 

From  hearts  that  claim 
For  deeds  of  good,  a  guerdon  sure, — 
E'en  blessings  that  foraye  endure. 


MINE  IN  HEAVEN. 


Lift  up  the  sweeping  fringes  of  thine  eyes, 
Those  twilight  eyes  that  haunt  me  e'en  in  dreams; 
What  wealth  of  tenderness  within  them  lies, — 
The  pure  soul  through  them  beams. 

Sing  to  me  yet ; — O  how  I  love  that  strain, 
So  like  the  wind-harp's  sweetest  plaintive  tone ; 
Thrilling  my  heart  with  a  delicious  pain, 
Like  mem'ries  of  hopes  flown. 

The  room  is  darken'd  when  thou  art  not  here, 
Stay — for  all  light  and  joy  go  forth  with   thee : — 
Vain — vain  this  worship  !  wherefore  art  thou  dear  ? 
'Tis  the  heart's  mystery. 

Thou  art  mine  own — but  O,  not  here — not  here — 
Death  like  a  shadow  cometh  to  divide  ; 
But  in  yon  Heaven,  by  the  waters  clear, 
I'll  linger  by  thy  side. 

Lift  up  the  fringes  of  thy  twilight  eyes, 
In  dreams  I  saw  thine  image  ere  we  met; 
I  will  await  thee,  darling, — in  the  skies — 
Mine — but  not  yet — not  yet. 


SORROW. 


"He  who  has  most  of  heart,  knows  most  of  sorrow." 

BAILEY. 

Over  the  spirit  it  cometh, 

Cheerless  and  dark  and  cold  ; 
Like  a  solemn  bird  it  broodeth, 

And  its  dim  wings  unfold  ; 
Unfold  to  shadow  the  spirit, 

Trembling  beneath  their  night  ; 
A  night  with  no  star  to  cheer  it, — 

Night  with  no  gleam  of  light. 

There's  woe  for  the  heart  that  loveth, — 

Its  cherish'd  ones  will  die ! 
Woe — woe  for  the  heart  that  trusteth, 

For  storm-clouds  hover  nigh  ! 
And  vvreck'd  is  each  darling  treasure, 

Wreck'd  each  enchanting  hope  ; 
Wreck'd — wreck'd  on  the  heart's  deep  waters, 

Each  sinking,  wailing  Hope! 

O  where  shall  the  aching  spirit 
Rest  from  its  fearful  strife  ? 
O  where  shall  the  shuddering  spirit 


114  CHEER    IP. 

Hide  from  the  storms  of  life  ? 
There's  rest,  to  our  Father  clinging, 

Safety  alone  near  Him  ; 
There,  Lark-like  the  heart  upspringing, 

May  sing,  though  its  sky  be  dim. 


CHEER  UP. 


Cheer  up — cheer  up  ! — though  life  has  days, 

November  days,  I  ween  : 
When  the  lone  heart  wails  like  the  wind, 

And  nothing  bright  is  seen  ; 
When  smiles  come  faintly  to  the  lips, 

And  eyes  glance  mournfully  ; 

And  Hope  seems  like  a  faded  leaf, 
Just  clinging  to  the  tree  ; 

Yet,  smile- — cheer  up  ! — new  hopes  and  joys, 

Within  thy  heart  will  spring  ; 
And  He,  whose  love  is  over  all, 

A  spirit-balm  will  bring. 
Cheer  up,  nor  wear  a  clouded  brow, 

Thy  home  with  gloom  to  fill  ; 
Thank  God  for  past  and  present  good, 

And  brood  not  o'er  the  ill. 


CAROLINE. 


"Come  home  !  there  is  a  sorrowing  breath 
In  music,  since  ye  went." 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

Come  Lina,  come ! 

The  hearth  you  brightened  now  is  lone, 
And  sadness  breathes  in  every  tone, 
My  sister  dear,  since  thou  art  gone. 

Come  Lina,  come ! 
Thy  merry  laugh — I  hear  it  now  ; 
And  the  soft  ringlets  o'er  thy  brow, 
I  see  them  in  their  graceful  flow. 

Come  Lina,  come ! 
Thy  light  steps,  azure-eyed,  I  miss ; 
Thy  voice  o'erfull  of  mirthfulness, — 
Thy  warm  heart's  clasping  tenderness. 

Come  Lina,  come  ! 
E'en  music's  breath  is  sorrowful, 
Since  thou,  who  touched  the  chords  so  well, 
Hast  left  their  echo  like  a  knell. 


116  THE  MAIDEN'S  KEPLV. 

Come  Lina,  Come ! 

The  birds  to  sunny  climes  have  flown, — 
The  sweet  flowers  dead,  and  I  am  lone, — 
Come  back  to  me  mine  own — mine  own  ! 


THE  MAIDEN'S  REPLY. 


A  lady,  in  reply  to  a  message  from  her  lover  who  had 
been  cruelly  maimed  and  disfigured  in  battle,  Said,  "Tell 
him  that  while  he  has  body  enough  to  contain  his  soul,  I 
am  his. " 

Forsake  him  !  while  his  noble  heart 

Is  beating  in  its  frame  ? 
Disfigur'd  though  the  mortal  part, 

I'll  love  him  still  the  same. 

The  same  ?   oh  no !    but  better,  now 

That  sorrow  is  his  own  ; 
Since  sufFring  paled  his  lips  and  brow, 

The  light  from  mine  hath  flown. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  REPI.V.  117 

Forsake  him?  does  the  lily  die 

When  lash'dthe  waters  crest  ? 
She  turns  to  it  her  loving  eye, 

And  slips  into  its  breast. 

Turn  from  him?  does  the  vine  forsake 

The  tempest-riven  oak  ? 
From  its  broad  arms  it  doth  not  break, 

But  groweth  o'er  the  stroke. 

Come  to  me  love — I'll  wipe  away 

The  tear-mist  from  thine  eyes, — 
Of  thee  I  dream,  for  thee  I  pray, — 

My  spirit  to  thee  flies. 

Come  to  me  love — thou  shalt  forget 

The  strife,  the  battle's  roll  ; 
Thine,  if  remains  a  fragment  yet 

To  hold  thy  noble  soul. 

10 


CRY  OF  THE  FAMISHING  IRISH. 


"O  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  !'' 

We're  starving  !   we  perish  !  our  little  ones  die; 
The  wail  of  the  mother  ascendeth  on  high  ; 
Moveless  and  ghastly  the  strong  man  is  sleeping, 
The  wife  of  his  hosom  beside  him  a  weeping; 
Their  babe  nestling  close  to  her  torn  heart  doth  lie, 
But  the  fountain  that  nourish'd  it  now  is  dry. 
Help  !  bread  for  the  famishing,  wildly  we  cry, — 
Bread  !   bread  for  our  children  !   O  bread,  or  we 
die! 

Ye  nobles  of  England  look  on  us  and  weep, — 
Dejected,  down-trodden,  we  sigh  while  ye  sleep  ; 
Your  palaces  glitter  in  crimson  and  gold, — 
Forget  not  the  starving — the  perishing — cold  ! 
Your  fair  daughters   sparkling   with  jewels,  pass 

by,- 
We  ask  but  the  crumbs  'neath  your  tables  that 

lie; 
The  blood  of  your   breth'ren  cries  up  from   the 

sod., — 
'Help!  help  iu  the  name  of  a  merciful  God  !' 


THE    CAPTIVE    DEER.  119 

O  home  of  the  exile — thou  land  o'er  the  sea  ; 

The  wretched  of  Erin  turn  fondly  to  thee  ; 

We  corne  with  our  children,  we   come    with  our 

sires, — 

A  place  by  your  altars — room,  room  by  your  fires ! 
Our  people  are  falling  like  leaves  in  a  storm, — 
The  maid  sits  embracing  her  lover's  cold  form; 
Like  doves,  to  the  ark,  o'er  the  waters  we  flee, 
To  the  land  bless'd  of  God — America,  to  thee. 


THE  CAPTIVE  DEER. 


Deer  from  the  forests,  pine — 
Standing  so  statue-like,  so  mourful  there, 
Thy  graceful  head  upraised  to  sniff  the  air, 

Tell  me,  what  dreams  are  thine  ? 

Wildly  thy  soft  brown  eyes, 
Their  suppliant  glances  turn  upon  mine  own, 
As  if  to  say,  '  O,  all  is  here  unknown, — 

Where  are  my  own  blue  skies  ? 

'Where  the  Savannas'  green, 
And  the  Magnolia,  to  the  zephyrs  giving 
Her  perfumed  lips  ;  and  countless  flow' rets  spring 
ing, 

The  tangled  vines  between  ? 


120  THH    CAPTIVE    DEI'.K. 

'Mid-Spring's  glorious  brow, 
With  orange-buds  and  blossoms  garlanded, — 
A  crown  of  sunlight  sparkling  on  her  head, — 

O  say — where  is  she  now  ? 

In  the  first  blush  of  morn, 
When  joyously  the  gentle  fawns  are  bounding, 
No  longer  am  I  startled  by  the  sounding 

Of  the  gay  huntsman's  horn. 

I'd  list  it  yet  again — 

Though  it  bring  fear — though  it  bring  oven  dan 
ger, 

So  with  my  own,  I  might  dwell  a  ranger, 
By  streamlet,  wood,  and  plain. 

Will  ye  not  loose  my  bands  ? 
I  thirst,  I  pant  for  freedom !   but  in  vain  ! 
Swift  as  the  wind, — free  as  the  wild  bird's  strain, 

I'd  seek  my  native  lands. 

Alas  !  a  captive  I ! 

Far  from  the  dim  wood  where  my  doe  reposes,' 
Far  from  the  sunny  land  of  vines  and  roses, 

In  this  bleak  clime,  1  die  ! 


LIBRARY 
' 


A     000  494  957 


